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* THE TATTOOED FOOT. i

, He had looked for him all day—all night— Jt was dawn again, and he must go home without him—without his little child—his treasure, his most precious thing on earth. He must go home and tell his mother that the boy was not found. All his life he had dreaded this—all the little life of that baby boy.

Often in the night had the thought so overcome him that he had stolen from his bed in the darkness to feel the little head of his sleeping boy on the pillow of his crib. Only once, once he was forced to tell his wife. Tha t was when he tattooed the child's foot

Itight on the instep he had marked i t with a little blue W. It was pain­ful—every prick [hurt him worse than

tit did the boy; and the mother, coming Jnome, had been angry and grieved.

Now it had come. The foolish fear was realized. Lost or stolen, the boy •was gone, and that tattoo mark was the only thing that comforted him.

They spent their small means in ad­vertising. They posted notices of their loss on the walls. All in vain.

After others knew that they followed a forlorn hope, they still pursued it as earnestly as ever. And so the weeks rolled by; the months faded; the years followed. Theirs was a hard case.

No other children came to these people, and they were very miserable. The man seemed crushed—he had neither ambition nor energy. The woman went about her daily toil in a <Iull, listless manner. Their hair grew gray and their brows wrinkled very early.

At last they seemed to stand alone in the world; old acquaintances and •relatives were gone or had forgotten them.

A far away relative died and left them a little fortune. He had not taken much notice of them during his life, but ho had given them a thought on his death bed. They were com­paratively rich. When they knew it the samo thought came to each at once. Tne woman uttered it first.

'•Martin,1' said she, perhaps we can find our boy after all. He will come to us—I feel sure of it—at last, Mar­tin, at last."

"Yes, it may be so, Agnes,'' the man said. "It may be so; the time has been long, the days woeful; but we may be happy after all that is gone. Agnes, 1 believe it will be so."

They kissed each other and made ready for the journey, which they needs must take to enter upon their inheritance.

The first evening in the new house was almost happy.

"Agnes, we must put this cash away in a bank to-morrow," said the hus­band, counting over a roll of notes. "'It is not safe to keep it here, and we must be careful, we have that to do which must make us economical."

"Yes, Martin," said his wife, as she held the light for him, and he locked the small, old-fashioned safe.

Afterward, in the dark, their heads close together on the pillow, the elderly couple talked on, dreaming like children.

"Hark," said Agnes, "what is that?" They listened. A low, grating sound

a t the door below, regular and care­fully subdued—a click—a crack.

"Someone is trying to break in," said Martin.

Agnes hid her face in the pillows. They were alone in a lonely house on a lonely road. They had several thou­sand douars in th'eir possession. Martin was not a powerful man, and, though he had a pistol there might be two or three against one, and then there was "ittle hope for him.

He arose and took his weapon in his hand, and felt about in the dark for matches And Agnes heard a creak­ing of the flooring and the sound of muffled footsteps, and also sprung to the floor.

"They are at the safe below," cried Martin. "Agnes, the money—the money for our boy! O! if my "life is lost for its sake, J cannot lose that! I cannot—I cannot!"

"Martin! Martin! Stay—do not go. What can you do--one man alone?" ecreamed Agnes.

But he was gone. She was alone in the darkness. It was all over in a moment. There were shots, oaths—a fall—silence. She crept down stairs, trembling, so that she could scarcely stand. Leaning against the safe was her husband, blood upon his sleeve; on the floor lay a man, in a crape mask, stiffening in death.

"Martin!" sobbed the woman. Mar­tin!"

" I have killed him!" cried the man. "'Fasten the door, put up the great har. Had I not forgotten that they -could not have entered. Oh, It is -terrible, but I could not lo3e every ^chance of my boy. They fired at me. I at them. I wounded both. Oh, to think I should have killed a man. I!"

"Martin, he may not be dead," said the woman. "He is young. I hope he is not dead. Perhaps he has a mother somewhere. Let me bind up your hand. Then we will try to re­store him. Dear Martin! even if it is so, who can blame you? Poor, poor boy!"

She bound up the graze on her husband's hand. Then they lifted the young man's body to the soft rug and undid the mask. A face WHS re­vealed, young, handsome and pallid

.as marble. "Oh, it ia terrible!" said the wife.

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"No older than our poor boy. Oh, Martin, he is dead. I fear. I will loosen his necktie. You may take off his shoes and rub his feet Oh, morn­ing ia so far away! This is such a lonely place. Martin, what is it?"

She started at her husband in horror. His face was as the face of death. He sat ghastly and terrible to look upon, holding in his hand one of the feet that he had undressed.

"Dead!" he said wildly. "Dead! and I shot him—I!"

"Martin!" shrieked the wife. She laid the dead man's head down on the rug and crept up to her husband. "God will forgive you," she said; and then her eyes, dilating, fixed them­selves upon the point at which her husband stared.

It was the foot of the young burglar. The left shoe was off—the stocking also. The high, white instep was un­covered, and on it she saw a little tattooed <«W" with a tiny cross beside it. It was her son who lay there.

"Martin," she screamed again. "Martin, remember what I told you. He had not us to teach him what wa9 right—remember—remember."

But Martin only moaned. "He is dead, and I killed him!" He

felt blindly for his pistol. "Forgive me, Agnes, for 1 cannot live," he said,* but at that moment the woman, with her hand upon the breast of the prostrate man, screamed out:

"His heart beats, Martin—he lives!" The next day a strange story flew

about the neighborhood. The child those two strange people had lost years ago had returned to them. That very night burglars had entered the house and wounded him. His life was in danger. The doctor had been there all the morning, but the mother had no fears.

"God had sent him back and he would not die. she said.

It is never too late for repentance, and the love of those poor parents was very strong. Strange as the be­ginning was^ the end was peace; and the household, so strangely reunited, was a happy one at last—Boston Globe.

INDIAN JAND COMET.

Ihe Former Accounts for the Latter to His En-tire Satisfaction.

During the year the last comet was streaming in the sky I was camping one night in a canon near the foot of Cook's Peak, N. M. In the party was an old and—for an Indian—fairly in­telligent Ute named Sam. Sam had been attached to some cavalry troop at Fort Cummings as a scout, says the Kansas City Star, but his day of leav­ing the service being reached, he at­tached himself to me—for a considera­tion. Pointing to the comet, I asked Sam what he could say in its defense from the standpoint of a Ute. Sam was, unlike most Indians, a good single-handed talker, and could speak Eng­lish very well. He was ambitious to perfect himself in the language and readily seized on every chance for a "talk." Indeed, I discovered him on one or two occasions all alone and talk­ing very vigorously at a mark like a savage Demosthenes sans the pebbles.

"Tell about that?" said Sam, point­ing toward the comet. "Sam do it heap easy, you bet. The sun is the man and he have moon for squaw. The stars—big stars and little s t a r s -are all their children. The sun don't like 'em and chases 'em. If he catch one he eats it. This makes the stars heap 'fraid, and when the sun has his sleep over and comes out the stars run and hide. When the sun comes stars go; creep into holes and hide. But the moon is good. She Joves her children, the stars, and when the sun sleeps she comes out in the sky and the stars are glad, and they come out of the places they hide in and forget to be 'fraid and play. But when the sun wakes again they run. He is always after them, and he catches them sometimes. This one," continued Sam, again pointing at the comet, "the sun catch one time. He got away though, but the sun bit him and hurt him. That's why he bleed so. Now he's heap scared, and so he keeps his face always toward the place where the sun is sleeping."

Sunrise. The colors of the morning spread

O'er all the eastern sky, Pale-green and gold and tea-rose red.

And purple of porphyry. The wet grass glistens like silver threads,

And still stars fade and die. Tne day begins her wistful chase

For the fleeing night to seek, And the oriole sings his song of grace,

But my heart is weary and weak; For the thought of one absent face,

And a longing I cannot speak.

The Better Way. The official hangman of England says

there is no neater way of taking a murderer's life than to hang him. If the knot is rightly adjusted, the con­demned man suffers no pain whatever, and it he is rightly ' 'coached" he will remain passive and help the execu­tioner to do perfect work. He says the guillotine and electricity are worse than the war-clubs of Indians.

A Hit Back. A Russian editor who had been

traveling in Germany says that the sight of a body of conscripts at a rail­way station is exactly akin to that of a body of exiles on their way to Siberia, both being downcast, lament­ing and taking a long farewell of sor­rowing friends.

ESPIONAGE IN PRANCE. SPELLBOUND. Hon a Visitor is Hade Aware of the Belgn of the

Spy System. The third republic is no freer than

were any previous French regimes from this deep taint of what the French call mouchardise. Never be­fore n t any period of France's history has the reign of spydom been so wide­spread and absolute in Paris as now. There has been latterly much discus­sion in the world's press of the extra­ordinary degree to which official es-pionago obtains in Russia, and very interesting details have been forth­coming on the subject I am now in a position to affirm that in Paris—I do not say throughout the whole of France—the meshes of the detective net are woven even more closely round the entire population than has ever been the case in S t Petersburg. Evidence of this fact might easily be found in the secret history of the Boulangist conspiracy. From first to last every detail of this movement was known to the police, more than three-fourths of the Boulangists themselves being informers.

The instant you arrive at a Paris station you are in the midst of spies. You are driven to a hotel in a cab. In half an hour the cabman will furnish the police with any particulars he may have been able to gather concerning your position, destination, business, &c. Arrived at your hotel you be­come the object of scrutiny, as close as it is secret, on the ' part of divers persons, who, though attached to the place in the capacity of manager or cashier or even porter or "boots," are in reality enrolled soldiers of the great detective army. And here I may mention a special characteristic of the French detective system, its faculty of recruiting adherents in all classes of society. French spies for the most part are not simple spies and nothing more. They have a trade or occupation of their own, to which they seem wholly and solely devoted, while yet assiduously pursuing sub rosa their spying.

The unsuspecting stranger in Paris has dinner at his hotel served by a waiter, who, as a matter of course, is in the pay of the police and will sub­sequently report to them what con­versation he overhears during the meal. He then sallies forth, primed with a glass or two of fine champagne, for an evening's amusement of the true Parsian sort. First he repairs to one of the brilliant boulevard play­houses. A few stalls away from him sits a gentlemanly looking man with steady, observant eyes, who glances now and again at our friend in such a way as to make the latter think, "I wonder where I have seen that man before?" He never has seen him be­fore, but it doesn't enter his head for a moment to suspect the man of being what he really is—a police spy.

The play over, there is just time for half an hour's stroll under the horse-chestnuts in the Jardin de Paris. Here nine-tenths of the attendants are either spies or scamps, or may, indeed, be both at once, for French police au­thorities are not very squeamish in choosing their instruments, and seem to have a sort of preference for scoun­drels over others. Their theory runs that the .greater villain a man is the better spy he will make; moreover, the most effacious means of keeping a man under spy surveillance is to have him become a spy himself, for spies spy upon each other quite as much as on the rest of mankind.—Philadelphia Times.

Mrs. Ingalls and Jim Lane. "Among the men most prominent in

the early history of Kansas was Sena­tor Jim Lane," said Mrs. Ingalls, of Kansas, to a New York Sun reporter. "For many years he was the idol of the people, and might have continued to be but for his unfortunate alliance with the administration of Andrew Johnson. In bis manner he was a fascinating man, with brilliant social qualities, and the last time 1 saw him was in St. Louis, which city I visited for the purpose of preparing my wed­ding trouseau, about the time that I married Senator Ingalls. I remember Senator Lane accompanying our party to the theatre during my visit to St. Louis, and I was struck with his con­versational powers. Soon after that, when hopelessly defeated in Kansas, his political ambition having been thwarted at every point, he astonish­ed his friends and confounded his ene­mies by taking his own life.

• m i ——

Yon Can Not Always Tell. RusticuB: " I suppose^that you go

around so much that you know every, body in the city?" Urbanus: "Well, I know a good many people, it is true." Kusticus: "Well, who is that old fellow with a'rugged tie and a dent in his hat, who can't find a nickle to pay his fare?" Urbanus: "That's the greatest lawyer in town; he makes a hundred thousand a year." Rusticus: "And Shat wealthy young fellow next to him, with the diamond rirj# and the fur-lined overcoatP" Urbanus: "Oh, he takes care of the towels in a barber shop."

Even Pliny. Pliny the great could see things in

frort of his nose as well as afar off. " I noticefthat the women rub the wash­ing in cold wate«," he wrote one day. "Let them heat the water and the alkali in the soap will be freed and take far better effect" And only after that did women know how to wash.

"Begorra!" said Pat, With an emphasis, that

Left no doubt of his being elated. It's Kitty O'Fake Has the charmnm to make

Any man in the wurruld frustrated.

"Sich shpell she invokes— Sure Oi'in tellin' no jokes—

An' so quick puts, yer nerves in a tatter, That the first time I set Me two eyes on the pet,

Be the powers! Oi never looked at her.

"An' faix it's- as thrue As, the wurruld thro' an' thro'

A man's father's daughter's his sister. So great was me daze At her illigant way>

That the first toiineOi kissed 'crOi missed •er."

—Boston Courier.

THE MTARLANl) GIRLS.

N the days of hoop-skirts and side-combs there flourished in a small Indiana town a young ladies' semi­nary, carried on by Miss McFarland and Miss Mary Ann Mc­Farland.

Although theseguardians of maiden­hood were still called "The McFarland girls," they had more than "just turn­ed th i r ty" when the seminary was first started, quite ten years before the crucial period of which I am about to tell. Appearance indicated no dif­ference in ages between Miss McFar­land and Miss Mary Ann; but occas­ionally one of the sisters would lay down the law sufficiently to show some feeling of rightful authori ty owning to one year more of mortal experience.

This was Miss McFarland. The other sister would quietly give in with a pleasant "Yes. sifter. Just as you say." This was Miss Mary Ann, whose only compensation for comparative youth was in the possession of smoother skin and glossier hair than "Sister." She would never confess this much even to herself. The perfect union of the two in thought and deed was one of the entertaining facts made much of a t all social gatherings. How­ever, when quietly withdrawing her will from the scene of action she would frequently smooth her fine black hair, and with a consoling sigh, glance in a convenient mirror for the effect. Dress­ing alike and sharing every thought had moulded the sisters so completely into one being-it he principal of the Mc­Farland seminary—that male intrud­ers with matrimonial intentions had preforce kept their distance, doubting their own powers of at t rac­tion being sufficient t o divide these, "lineal descendants of the purest aris-toracies.' ' Whojposed cm t he ragged ed<*e of Poverty Hill with head held high in the air.

Elisha Bliss was the one male inhab­i tant of the quiet town brave enough t o call once a week, as such frequency among the Hoosier pioneers was apt to be construed into a desire to "wait upon" the recipient of the at ten­tion. His boldness now lasted many years without interruption and issue The gentleman in question was a tall, rather limp specimen, w hose greatest natural adornments were a fine head of brown hair, always carefully curled, and a soft persuasive voice.

Mr. Bliss was a member of the -firm of Bliss, Banks and Co., booksellers. As he was apt to remark to the Misses Mc­Farland. "Our occupations form abond of union between us. You sell know ledge verbally, while I educate the ignorant by the sale of the written erudition of of the age." To which Miss McFarland or Miss Mary Ami. as the case might be, would feelingly reply: '-We appre­ciate the situation, Mr.* Bliss, and are always grateful for your companion­ship and advice "' Miss Mary Ann had once used the word friendship in this connection before Sister, but it prov­ed her only venture of the kind, as she was met with a severe reprimand for thus using an "endearing epithet" in relation t o a single gent leman—for Elisha Bliss was single. He indulged in a bachelor of forty-live years stand­ing never having gone through the blinding process of love, unless, as gossip insinuated he "was waiting for one of the McFarland girls, but the Lord only knows which one," owing t o the regularity of his seminary calls; to which Dame Rumor replied. "He cer­tainly does wear his sittin' breeches when he pays his respects." Satur­day afternoon being always a free time with the sisters, it was set a p a r t for receiving any chance visitors, as Sunday, in their words "belongs not to us, but to our Maker." Their inher­ited Scotch Presbyterianism precluded any relaxation on the Sabbath from the perscribed course of three church serv­ices relieved by cold meals prepared on Saturday, and the reading ot psalms and hymns. Accordingly, one Satur­day afternoon, Miss Mary Ann sat a t work on her ta t t ing a t a decorous dis­tance from the window, where she could catch a glimpse through the Venetian blinds of callers or paserb-by. As she sat, her stiff black silk with the assist­ance of the hoopskirt, stood quite as it were. The trim bodice and loose sleeves became well her slight figure, while her black hair brought out the quiet strength of the face no longer young. For the first time in twenty years she was prepared to receive her friends without Miss McFarland, the latter being laid up with rheumatism for the only time on reception days during all these years.

With great temerity Miss Mary Ann had consented t o her sister's desire t ha t she receive alone; and now, as her attention was called by a clicking of the latch of the front gate, the feel­ing of a debutante almost overpower­ed her. The caller proving to be Mr. Bliss, she was somewhat reassured, but her voice showed embarrassment as she responded to the familiar "Are

you enjoying your usual good health, Miss Mary Ann?" by a hurried ex­planation of her sister's absence through indisposition. Mr. Bliss ex­pressed his regret a t MissMeFarland's illness, but did not seem particularly despondent a t the prospect of an hour with Miss Mary Ann. Some talk followed about the last praver meet­ing, in which Mr. Bliss had taken quite a conspicuous par t ; the con­dition of the seminary; the weather, which had been rather falling of late; and other topics of like importance. Finally a pause of uncomfortable length ensued. There seemed to be nothing left to talk about. Mr. Bliss picked up his silk hat, which had been carefully placed on the floor beside his chair, and quite as carefully smoothed it the wrong way with his finest hand­kerchief, drawn from the pocket of his coat tails. The tat t ing became re-factory, and a t her wits' end for some­thing to say, Miss Mary Ann broke the pause usually filled by her sister's conversation with the question: "Mr Bliss—ah!—why, Mr. Bliss can you tell me how far it is between the mile posts?" Immediately seeing her own stupidity the poor little lady blushed most becomingly, a thing unheard of since her school-girl days.

Mr. Bliss expressed his surprise on -ly by a cessation of the ha t polishing, though he looked a t her and replied in a heavily jocular way: "I had always supposed about a mile, Miss Mary Ann." This Benedict was not above the flattery of a woman's blush and generally flustered condition a t find­ing herself alone with him. After clearing his t h roa t with a meaning ahem! he sat very straight in his chair, and in his exhorting tone of voice, most impressive in weekly meeting, he began. "The scriptures teach us, Miss Mary Ann, t ha t man was not made to live alpne." Here he paused to note the effect of his words upon the lady opposite, who was recovering from her embarrassment under the in­fluence of his solemn manner, then proceeded: "For some time I have thought seriously about this advice, aud it has been borne in upon me tha t I am a black sheep in the Master's fold in my present lonely condition. For many years your admirable qualities have been before my eyes. Miss Mary Ann. My respect for them and you has grown every day, until I feel called upon to tell you of the s ta te of my feelings, and ask you if you are w illing to be my companion down the hill of life9" In the depths of the heart thus appealed to had long been hidden t h a t inexplica­ble emotion w ithout which no w Om­an's life is fully rounded out, and this emotion had been generated by the at­tractions of Elisha Bliss. This was the crisis of an unselfish life. It meant protection and affection or entire re­nunciation for another, owing to a cur­ious family custom which I will allow the the victim to explain. She was so long silent t h a t Mr. Bliss was on the point of renewing the unexpected at tack when she said, with a quiver­ing smile around the patient mouth.

" I am too surprised for words, Mr. Bliss1 I—I—s—supposed it was Sis­ter!" and she had an intuitive feeling tha t Sister thought so too and was pleased a t the idea.

"No," he replied; "Miss McFarland is a lady greatly to be admired, but I have choben you to be my wife, pro-vided } ou will consent."'

But I cannot consent,'' she an­swered.

Looking blank and displeased, he asked-

"Is it because you cannot recipro­cate my feelings, Miss Mary Ann?"

For a moment she hesitated, then with honest dignity explained

"No; it is not tha t ; but I can never marry until Sister is provided lor in tha t way. I t has been a rule in our family from time immemorial tha t the eldest daughter must be married be­fore her younger sister can accept any such offers."

"But do you consider such a condi­tion of things to be reasonable. Miss Mary Aim?" came from the discomfit­ed suitor.

She drew herself up, and with a glance of pride at an old-fashioned por t ra i t hanging on the Avail, replied.

"My father's judgment in all things was and is supreme, Mr. Bliss. In his last moments he bade me remember the precedent of generations, to be ever constant to the interests of my elder sister." Then with a gentle sigh, and in a lower tone she continued: "If you w ish to make me happy, ask Sis­ter to be your wife."

Did ever man before listen to such a proposition, and, what is even more remarkable, accept it*'

Was it pique, ot resignation to the inevitable—to a Iinling Providence— which enabled him to reply. "Very well, if this is your final decision, I will speak to Miss McFarland on the sub­ject a t the first opportunity: you are my choice, but no doubt your sister will make a good wife, if she is willing." With a composed "Good after-noon,' he left Miss Mary Ann to the burial of her one hope of marital happiness.

She entered the sick-room an hour later with a bright face; related the fact t ha t Mr. Bliss had called, and her own failure to be intertaining when left to himself. No reference was made to the rejected offer. A month later Elisha Bliss had become the pros­pective partner for life of Miss McFar­land upon the one condition t ha t Mary Ann was always to make her home with them. No allusion was ever made by word or action, between the participants, t o the trying scene enacted behind the Venetian blinds on a certain Saturday afternoon. One night a t the weekly meeting Miss Mary Ann looked up in the midst of the familiar hymn:

"Blest be the tie that binds Our hearts in Christian love,

The fellowship of kindred minds I& like to that above."

surprising a reproachful glance from a pair of gray eyes, belcngingto Elisha Bliss, fixed upon her persistently. This was all; and it never happened again.

In the autumn the young ladies' seminary did not reopen. Miss Mc­Farland and Miss Mary Ann became, respectively, wife and sister-in-law t o Elisha Bliss. For twenty years the three formed a harmonious domestic

household. I t was always "Sister and -Ji 1? a n d s o ' " o r "Elisha thinks

with us t h a t certain changes would be an improvement." A few years after *«vv d^fS tv l c P a^ t n e i ' ship was formed,

Ehsha showed signs of weakness in the chest, which grew upon him de­veloping into the old-fashioned 'slow-consumption. The sisters devided the necessary feminine attention between them, sharing sorrow and joy alike through many years of increasing pecuniary loss and hardship. Mr. and Mrs. Bliss would never listen to Mary Ann's desire t o go out and make her own way in the world. "Not while I have a roof over my head," the elder sister would emphatically insist; and how they would ever have got on without he/ it is impossible even to imagine. Not long ago Elisha died, after coughing through nearly a quarter of a century ] leaving the two old ladies to one an­other, as he found them, unswerving­ly devoted one to the other; living in the old house full of things quaint and curious though somewhat thread­bare, and wearing, as of old hoop-skirts and side-combs. The straight, prim figures are still unbending, but Miss Mary Ann's skin has lost its bloom, and Sister's manner of speech nas grown more yielding. When they gave up the infant class in Sunday school, which was long their special charge and interest to younger hands their maternal interest found vent in making the neighborhood children happy. Among my earliest gastrono­mic recollections is one of fragrant little bundles sent me on every holiday with Miss Mary Ann's love, which, on being excitedly opened, proved to be ginger bread animals or men and women with dried-currant eyes; not perfect from an anatomical standpoint. but how heavenly to the childish palate' As I matured sufficiently to compre­hend their entire dovotion to each other, the thought frequently occurred to me- "What would become of either one if the other should follow Elisha alone?" Miss Mary Ann with­out Sister would be devoid of her stronger half, while Sister, parted from Mary Ann, would lose her no­blest complement. The time has not yet come for this separation, and I t rus t with all my heart tha t thev may together join Elisha.

I doubt if Miss Mary Ann has ever for a moment regretted her sacrifice, for joy of her life is in making others happy.- As for Elisha Bliss, he will always remain an enigma to me, for if Sister did not suit liim as well as hi^ first choice, he was a master in the ar t of deception —Anna Farquhar in Montreal Star.

Crushed. Four or five of us entered the hotel

together, but the man with the seal­skin-trimmed coat pushed his w al­right up to the desk, registered as J . N.Powell Jones. Boston, and loudly remarked

"Best parlor bed-room you have in the caravansary, and it must be on the froiTt. too ."

"Yes. xir," obsequiously replied the clerk, and he ran him into the elevator before he assigned any of the rest ol us to a back room four floors up.

At dinner the Baron had his bottle of wine, and he had two waiters jump­ing at his command. When through he strolled into the office with a gold toothpick in his mouth, sat down in a prominent place, and, stretching out his legs he remarked m a loud voice. "II I had time I'd like to gi\ e the Mayor ol this tow n a few hints on how to run it Here, you' If the Go's ernor calls for me say tha t I am out. I don't want to be bothered with him."

"Who is he?" I asked of one of the group

"A drummer from Boston." he re­plied.

"Why. I thought him some great man "

"Well. \ o u were right. They don't grow any bigger in this country."

The Baron snapped his fingers for a boy, sent for a new spaper and a cigar, and was asking if any of us had ever seen a thousand-dollar bill, when a Jew drummer for a tobacco house entered with an open telegram in his hand and handed it to the owner ol the earth. It read

"Firm of Blank & Blank, Boston, gone under for $200,000.' '

That was the firm the Baron trav­eled for. He read the dispatch twice over, gasped three or four times, and then fell on the floor. The news be­came public property in five minutes, and the clerk of the hotel looked cold­ly upon the unconscious man, and then said to the colored porter;

"Take him up the freight elevator to a cheap back room. Sam, and don't waste any more water than you can help in bringing him to . As soon as he can walk, get him out."

Superior to the English Article, "Boy, what kind of blacking do you

use?" asked a young Englishman of a bootblack. "You can get a good pol­ish everywhere in America, you know, but I can't get it in England. My boy a t home can't make my boots shine as you do."

"No," answered the boy, "England is not in it—When it comes to black­ing boots. We are a t the top of the heap."

"Ah' And what do you mean bv, ' top of the heap?' Slang, eh?"

"Right you are. Better take me with you when you go back, give me a good salary, and I will see tha t your shoes always shine like t ha t , " as he gave them the finishing touches and yelled for the next "gent."

"Even the bootblacks have the mon­ey fever here," sighed the Londoner, as he sauntered away. "Great country, this. -In it '—'top of the heap;' well, I like tha t . Something new, you know."

V

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